


As New

by Thrandilf



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 10:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thrandilf/pseuds/Thrandilf
Summary: Thranduil has never enjoyed training, and enjoys being bested even less. However, he cannot help but be amused by the one who bests him in training most often.





	As New

Training had never been one of Thranduil’s favorite activities, but there had never been a more insufferable training session than on the day he first spoke to his future wife. King Oropher had chosen to have his son train among the other young soldiers and scouts in an effort to endow his son with empathy and understanding of the people he held power over. Thranduil was a natural swordsman and easily defeated each of his sparring partners and targets. However, he was, at best, an above average archer, and was beginning to feel the negative effects of his frustration at being unable hit his mark every single time.

“Lift your head, my prince, or you will not see your target correctly,” commanded Lossiel, her teaching crop tapping him underneath the chin insistently until he obliged. Lossiel was King Oropher’s military second-in-command. A powerful she-elf with many victories to her name, she was as tall as the prince she was teaching, with a voice that resonated loudly across the clearing. Lossiel walked slowly along the line of archers, carefully considering their posture and form, and lightly admonishing those who were less than perfect. Only one never felt the braided leather crop on her skin; in fact, she was often praised for her flawless aim.

“Take a look at Amdirel, students.” Lossiel moved directly in front of Amdirel, her throat level with the tip of the arrow. Thranduil furrowed his brow, a nervous thump beginning in his chest. Amdirel’s face stayed stony, however, with no trace of concern in her eyes. “She is steady as the mountains beyond the north, and her control is impeccable.”

Thranduil could not dispute the elleth’s ability. She had never missed a target that Thranduil had seen, and was among the most promising warriors of Greenwood. Amdirel was part of a family line of incredible archers; it was common knowledge that in the First Age, her great uncle had killed a grand fire-drake with two arrows, one in each of its eyes, while he lay fading in a burning field. That heroic deed was not hers, however, and it bothered the prince that Amdirel received favor from Lossiel.

“One could argue that she practices unsafe arrow etiquette,” said Thranduil, careful to maintain his posture in an effort not to incur Lossiel’s wrath. She glanced at him briefly, then returned her eyes to Amdirel, raising her crop to her side and pulling on the end. The release made a loud  _ thwack  _ against Thranduil’s leg, and he cursed loudly, involuntarily letting loose his arrow. A stinging sensation began spreading across his thigh. Several of the other archers snickered, and Thranduil saw Amdirel’s mouth twitch at his pain, but her posture did not give.

“Perhaps, but during a hunt or on the battlefield, the one who does not let stray arrows fly is the one I would trust with my life,” said Lossiel, gesturing for the archers to lower their bows. Anger flooded through Thranduil.

“How dare you strike your King’s son!” he snapped, tossing his weapon to the ground and stepping towards Lossiel. She did not flinch. “How dare you humiliate me to inflate the ego of a common soldier!”

“Step down, my prince, for when you are my student, you are equal to the common soldier,” Lossiel replied coolly. “The King’s son is of no status here. In fact, Amdirel seems to be better suited for status than you, if we were to judge by skill. And tact.”

Silence fell over the group of elves. A rage boiled in Thranduil, and he could feel the tips of his ears turning red. Despite his desire to draw sword and challenge Lossiel, he knew this to be a poor decision, and instead turned to walk away, pushing Amdirel and another of the archers aside. He could feel their eyes on him as he made his way to the garden-thickets, and he cursed inwardly at the situation and himself.

 

Carefully cultivated branches formed the thicket ceiling, shielding Thranduil from the high noon sun. He slowed his walk through the tunnel-like paths, breathing deeply and letting his mind race with things he wished to shout at Lossiel. He knew deep down that she held no disdain for him and was simply doing what King Oropher had asked her to, but the disrespect still stung. 

An hour passed quickly for the prince as he paced among the tiny flowers that bloomed only in shade. Eventually his aggressive mood faded, and he stood still, gazing absent-mindedly at the many grooves in the branches around him. He found the organic shapes and colors soothing, and preferred the complex Greenwood to peaceful Imladris or mystical Lothlorien. Thranduil remembered his visits to those places as boring, and the elves either too kindly or silent. Both traits made him anxious and irritable. Tracing the twisting lines with his eyes was mesmerizing, and he fell into a sort of meditation that cleared his mind of anger and embarrassment.

Footsteps sounded behind him after a time, and he awakened from his quiet trance. A twinge of annoyance flickered in his stomach as he sighed; he did not want to be bothered. The twinge turned into full-blown irritation when he turned to see who was approaching him. No longer clad in utilitarian archery garb, Amdirel strode forward, her mossy green skirt swinging with each confident step. 

“Your grace, there you are!” she sang. A brightness in her face made Thranduil want to gag. “Why must you hide among the shade? There is supper to be served soon, the people desire your company!”

“I am not hiding,” he nearly spat, returning his eyes to the patterns in the woven branches. He hoped his venomous tone would deter any further attempts to converse, but he underestimated Amdirel’s ability to ignore his animosity.

“Of course, of course, and the summer sky isn’t blue,” she replied, sarcasm and a smile dancing on her words. “Lossiel asked me to find you.”

Thranduil allowed himself to raise his lip in a silent snarl. He should have guessed Lossiel was attempting to teach him a lesson after his outburst by sending someone she knew grated on his nerves.

“You have done your duty, I give you permission to leave,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. Amdirel did not move.

“Let me correct myself. She asked me to find you and bring you to the dining hall whether you want to follow me or not.”

Thranduil looked down at her, his eyes narrowing. Her smile did not fade.

“You do realize that lying to a member of the royal family is punishable by banishment,” he said slowly. Taking care not to break eye contact, he leaned slightly forward, attempting to use their considerable height difference to his advantage.

“It is a good thing that I am not lying to you, I suppose,” she replied, never letting that smile falter. What Lossiel had said about this elleth was true; she had impeccable control. 

The two stood facing each other in charged silence for a good minute, until Thranduil finally breathed in and straightened his back so he stood at his full height. He allowed his face to display his disdain for the situation plainly as he started off toward the garden entrance, walking in long strides that Amdirel could not have easily matched. While he would go to the dining hall as Lossiel had demanded, he refused to follow anyone.

The walk would have been short if Thranduil had not decided to stop at the armory and peel his training apparel off. As he dropped his leather bracers into the hands of an armory apprentice, he noticed a tear in the cotton sleeve of his tunic. A small “ugh” formed in his throat; the prince did not like having a less than flawless appearance in public spaces. Amdirel thanked the apprentices as they carried away Thranduil’s garments, then grabbed his torn sleeve with two fingers. He immediately stepped forward menacingly, closing the gap between them to barely two inches.

“Do not touch me,” he growled, expecting her to back away. Thranduil had learned this form of invasive intimidation from his father as a boy, and it had become somewhat of an instinctive response to unwanted attention. Amdirel did not back away, however, instead grimacing and tucking in her chin.

“I can fix your sleeve much quicker than you can,” she replied, lifting his arm and wiggling it. The motion made the tear slightly wider. Thranduil yanked his arm away and nearly hissed at the elleth in front of him, teeth bared animalistically.

“Is that what you call fixing?” he demanded. Her expression infuriated him; how was she so calm when faced with the anger of royalty? 

“Please, your grace, allow me to mend your tunic. It would be an honor to even touch your garment, and it would make my decade if I could stitch it back together.” Amdirel’s eyes flickered with a playful sarcasm that Thranduil did not want to appreciate. However, he could not help but be the tiniest bit amused by her joke. He inhaled sharply, trying not to let any hint of a smile cross his mouth, and turned aside.

“If you insist,” he said, holding his arm out. Amdirel laughed, and the feeling of enraged embarrassment from earlier returned. “Why are you laughing? You want to mend my tunic, so mend it!”

“I can’t,” she said, laughter adding a sort of sparkle to her voice. “You’re wearing it.” 

Thranduil felt the warmth of humiliation spread through his face and up his ears again. In an attempt to hide his embarrassment, he whipped off his tunic and tossed it at her. He knew his reaction was childish as he was doing it, but for some reason, he could not regain his normally cool demeanor. Amdirel’s laughter turned into a near-cackle as she laid the garment on a bench, digging in the satchel at her hip. Thranduil crossed his arms, and immediately became very aware of his bare torso. He tried to lean up against a wall, turning slightly so she could not see his chest or abdomen. Amdirel glanced up briefly, smirked, then began sewing the tear in his tunic.

“Do you always carry needle and thread with you?” Thranduil asked. He felt himself hoping she would say something bizarre so he could make fun of her.

“I don’t, actually. Varda sent me a prophetic dream that said I would need it today,” she replied. Thranduil huffed and rolled his eyes. “That is not a joke, your grace.”

“So you’re a disciple of Varda?” he said, suddenly feeling guilty for insulting her gift. Elves who chose Varda as their life’s guide were not rare, but the ability to see the future was something that the goddess endowed sparingly. If Amdirel was given prophetic dreams, that meant she was a worthy recipient.

“My entire family is. Where do you think our dedication to archery stems from?” Amdirel’s response seemed condescending, but Thranduil found himself unable to be irritated with it. Instead, he was genuinely interested in the elleth’s statement about archery. He knew that Varda was the goddess of light and stars, but could not recall her other domains. Being a devout disciple of Oromë, he had simply forgotten the lessons from his childhood about the other Valar.

“I thought you were just talented,” Thranduil said, watching Amdirel’s hands as she closed the hole in the tunic. His eyes moved up from her deft hands to her strong jawline; it was square and quite beautiful, and Thranduil could not help but admire it as she spoke. 

“We are talented, but not without help. Varda gifted my great-great-grandfather with beyond-sight, and my family has felt that blessing ever since.” Amdirel stood and held the tunic out. “As new, your grace.”

“Thank you,” mumbled Thranduil as he took the tunic. He stared at Amdirel for a few seconds, his mind instinctively trying to find something imperious to say, but he could only think about how glittery her eyes looked in that moment. 

“Well?” Amdirel raised her eyebrows.

“Well what? I already said thank you,” said Thranduil as he slipped back into his usual haughty demeanor. He tried to glare at her, but it felt more like he just squinted a bit.

“You should probably put your clothes back on before we go to supper,” Amdirel replied, that little smirk returning to her face. She walked past him, her shoulder brushing against his. Her touch sent a nervous chill through Thranduil’s body. 

“I will do as I please.” 

“If you will please cover yourself so as not to embarrass me, that would be wonderful.” Amdirel turned back, her smirk now a wide smile, and Thranduil felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. How she managed to amuse him while being absolutely maddening was beyond his current understanding.

“Don’t tell your prince what to do,” he said, slipping the tunic back on. 

She laughed again, and this time, Thranduil found the sound pleasant.

“At least I’m not lying to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Varda: Goddess of Light and Stars  
> Oromë: God of Forests and Hunting  
> Amdirel is a Sindarin name meaning "hope". Lossiel is a Sindarin name meaning "daughter of snow".


End file.
